It Happened in Haven Hall
by InkWorthy
Summary: Young Kirsty Cotton and her family are invited to join their old family friends, the Goodens, on an afternoon visit to the historic and charming Haven hall in the English countryside. Not all is as it seems, however, and soon Kirsty finds herself interested in more than just the architecture and intrigue. (Pinsty Victorian AU. I'm shameless.)
1. Chapter 1

_Remember how I listed one of the poll options as "super self-indulgent and shippy"? Here we are, folks. This is just something frothy and fun to write while I wrap up TPatC and decide between starting the sequel or working on Reconstructed. Again, it's super self-indulgent and meant to be as fun to write and read as possible. Hope you enjoy, because I sure will._

 _Be kind and stay scary! -Inky_

* * *

"This doesn't feel a little contrived to you?"

"What?" Julia had been looking out the window, tugging on the arm of Mr. Cotton and pointing at various sights to be seen. They both turned to Kirsty, who was trying her best to enjoy the ride but couldn't bring herself to relax. "What do you mean by that, Kirsty?"

"The invitation." She looked out the other window - there was a great stretch of grass and sky, but that was how the English countryside was supposed to look, she imagined. "It's just... the Gooden Family being on holiday makes sense, and us being here on business makes sense, but at the same time, in the same country?"

"Plenty of people come to England on holiday, Kirsty." Her father's hand settled on hers, and she looked back to his reassuring smile. She returned it, and one to Julia, even though she didn't feel it. "We're just visiting for the afternoon, then we'll be back to the city." His smile turned soft. "You probably won't even run into Trevor."

"If you do, though," Julia said as she fixed a strand of her hair, "you can come to our side or pretend you have a cough if you don't wish to speak to him. I can't imagine why you wouldn't, though, he's a charming young man."

"I know he is," Kirsty said, folding her hands in her lap again. The sound of horses trotting across the dirt was steadying her - pleasant rhythm that distracted her from her own worries. "Normally I wouldn't be so anxious, but after Steven..."

"Steven is in the past." Her father's voice was comforting but stern; she was happy, at least, to have him and Julia on her side. "If anyone gives you grief about him, you can tell me."

"Thank you, papa." Her smile felt more honest this time, and she even met Julia's when they briefly met each other's gaze. Julia was a good woman, and Kirsty was happy her father had met her. She made him happy in a way that Kirsty knew she couldn't; it was different space to fill, one that had been left empty for far too long.

She would make an effort to spend time with Julia today, Kirsty promised herself, even if she could never see her as a mother. They could be family - they both deserved that chance.

"Oh, we're here!" Julia spotted the house first, and Kirsty peered out the window with her.

"Oh my goodness," she said, gripping the sill a little tighter. "That's Haven Hall?"

It lived up to its name - a building of pearly off-white with tiled roofs, the home stood three stories tall with an open tower on its left side. It was wide and spacious and Kirsty could see small blue flowers that freckled the greenery spilling over the brick and wrought-iron fences.

"They don't _live_ here, do they?" Kirsty looked at Julia, feeling a touch of panic and indecency at her modest dress. Her father shook his head.

"No," he said, "it belongs to an old friend of the family's. Apparently they just love to invite people they know from oversees to show off its "old English charm", as they so put it." He smiled at both. "Are you ready?"

 _Not at all,_ Kirsty thought to herself, but she nodded anyway. "As I could ever be." The carriage came to a stop, and the door opened. Her father took Julia's hand and helped her out.

"Ladies first," he said with a smile, and soon Kirsty was following Julia outside. The sun was low in the sky - it was only mid-morning - and the house cast a soft shadow across them that stretched past the road and into the grass beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

"Lawrence!" Alexander Gooden was a tall man with broad shoulders and an embrace that was close to lethal. It didn't stop him from pulling Kirsty's father into his arms, and Mr. Cotton laughed even as he gasped a little for air. Kirsty stood beside Julia and managed a smile, despite worrying for her father's ability to breathe. He let go after a moment and turned to face both of them, face brightening. "And this must be the lovely Mrs. Cotton. Congratulations," he said, taking her hand with a smile, "I am so sorry I couldn't make the wedding. You're as lovely as his letters said."

"You're too kind, Mr. Gooden," Julia said with that perfect smile of hers, and he shook his head before Kirsty felt his eyes on her. "I trust you remember Kirsty?" His smile was kind, like her own father's, and Kirsty found herself mirroring it as he took both her hands in his.

"Is it really Kirsty? I hardly recognized you!" He laughed and kissed her hand, and Kirsty giggled a little at how jolly his expression was. She had always liked Mr. Gooden like a kind uncle, and he hadn't changed much beyond the salt-and-pepper now streaking through his dark hair. "You've grown up since we last met, my goodness. How old are you now?"

"Nineteen, Mr. Gooden," she said, and he gave a good-natured scoff before turning to her father.

"Nineteen and still a blossom! Wherever she got her looks from, Lawrence, it certainly wasn't thanks to you!" Kirsty and her father both laughed as Mr. Gooden turned back to her, finally releasing her hands as he di d. "It's wonderful to see you again, Kirsty." He stepped back to address all of them. "Mrs. Gooden is in the glass parlor having tea with some old friends, and I'm sure my son's gotten himself lost in that hedge maze in the garden. i swear they make it more convoluted and discombobulating every year. The masters of the house are most likely preparing for the dance tonight, making sure everyone's in order."

"A dance?" Mr. Cotton asked, eyebrows raised. Kirsty and Julia looked at each other, exchanging an expression of shared bewilderment, and Kirsty was a little relieved that Julia didn't seem aware of this turn of events either. "What dance?"

"Oh, it's nothing to fuss about," Mr. Gooden said with a laugh, "just a little get-together between old friends in the ballroom. I didn't bring anything fanciful - just come as you are. I'm sure you'll have fun." He looked at Kirsty with a twinkle in his eye. "It'd be an adventure of its own sort, meeting new people, wouldn't it?"

Kirsty smiled - she'd been fond of "adventures" as a young girl, mostly consisting of climbing trees and looking for hidden passages in old libraries. It seemed he hadn't forgotten that. "I suppose so," she said, looking to her father. "Papa?"

"Oh, I suppose there's no harm," Mr. Cotton said, walking over to Julia. He took her arm in his, and they smiled at each other. "Not when I have such a lovely dance partner."

"Oh _Lawrence,"_ Julia said, lightly swatting his arm with her fan. Kirsty smiled, feeling herself relax. It was an overwhelmingly large house, but the familiar faces put her at ease, made her feel a little more comfortable in such a grandiose environment.

As the three continued to speak she finally looked around her; large windows allowed light to spill into the room and dance across polished tile floors, almost sparkling in the afternoon sun. The walls were cream and the carpet was a rich scarlet, running up a winding staircase towards she couldn't imagine how many rooms. This was not their little townhouse, that was clear, and she was certain she'd be lost before sunset. She could hear chatter in the other rooms, calm conversation, the faint lull of distant violin music.

Upstairs, a horrified scream cut through the silence. Mr. Gooden and Mr. Cotton flew past her up the stairs, and it took Kirsty only a moment's recovery to follow. Two of the house servants were already in tow, and Kirsty could barely see over their shoulders when they stopped in front of a door. She could still hear, however; it was a woman's trembling voice, and between shoulders Kirsty glimpsed a maid on her knees, pointing at the floor.

"She-she's gone," she stammered, swallowing with a small sob, face a pink and swollen mess, "it was that wretched box, she's gone!" Kirsty followed her eyes to the box in question - black and gold and glittering, sitting in the middle of the wooden floor by itself. For a moment Kirsty thought the wood beneath it looked darker, even wet, but it shrank away so quickly that when she blinked, the stain was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

It took half an hour to calm the poor maid down, and in that time Kirsty found herself sitting next to the woman and holding her hand as it shook. Mary - for she was named Mary - could only stammer and point at the box even as it was taken away, stuttering out that a "Ms. Stevens" had been playing with the box and it had sprung open. It had been taken away now, though Kirsty hadn't seen who'd taken it.

"And when it did," she said through tears, and Kirsty squeezed the older woman's hand; "oh, there was such a terrible light, and the screams... I looked away, I did, and then it was all gone." She looked at Kirsty with tears in her eyes. "Miss, do not touch that box whatever you do, won't you promise me?"

She seemed shaken, perhaps hysterical, but Kirsty nodded and promised her nonetheless that she would not try to go near the box. That - the promise of precaution - finally seemed to bring her a little bit closer to reality, and Mary took in a breath before nodding in turn. Two more of the maids finally led her away, and Kirsty stood from the stool she'd found to return to her family.

"Such compassion," her father clucked with a smile, "you're going to cause a scandal one day doing that. Won't she, George?" But Mr. Gooden was not smiling; his brow was furrowed, his mouth set in an unfamiliar and worried frown. Kirsty looked from him to her father, but he looked just as perplexed as she felt by the whole affair.

"Mr. Gooden?" she asked, taking a step forward. He looked at her and shook his head.

"Ms. Stevens... I hope that wasn't Gwendolyn," he said, looking between them. "Her family owns Haven Hall... I've been friends with her father almost as long as I've known you, Lawrence. If anything happened to her..."

"From a box?" Mr. Cotton put a hand on his shoulder and took Kirsty's hand with the other. "I'm sure the maid just had some sort of spell, a waking fright of some sort. She's probably downstairs at tea with your wife, remember?"

"I suppose so." Mr. Gooden looked over his shoulder. "Where _is_ my son? He's been out of my sight for most of the day. Lawrence, perhaps we should look for him too, in case anyone else has a "waking fright" as you called it."

"Perhaps we should," Mr. Cotton said, and looked back to Kirsty. "Dear, I imagine we're going to have a busy afternoon. Perhaps you'd like to take some time to yourself and wander? This house is certainly larger than the ones we're used to back home."

"Without a chaperone? Are you certain, Lawrence?" Mr. Gooden said, but Mr. Cotton waved him off.

"I know my daughter, George, she'll be fine. You have the good sense to stay out of trouble, don't you, Kirsty?" Kirsty managed a smile, despite the image of that poor woman's face still lingering in the back of her mind.

"I'll be alright, Papa," she said, then smiled and gave a half-curtsey to Mr. Gooden. "If I see Trevor, I'll let him know you're looking for him." She rather hoped she didn't, but she kept that part to herself. She didn't _dislike_ Trevor by any means, but she was just never quite sure how to act around him. She remembered confidence, an unfailing smile and a flirtatious manner, and something about it left her just a little frazzled and uncertain about herself and the proper way to respond to his playful advances.

She mulled on this as she made her way down the stairs. The crowds had dispersed, and nobody paid much attention to the young woman in a relatively simple white blouse and stormy blue skirt. She felt quite plain in such an ornate building, but only for a moment, because the thought of running about in anything heavier seemed almost a nightmare. She liked to move, liked to explore, and nothing hampered that like getting a bustle caught in the door no matter how pretty it was. She envied the women who were content to sit still and read, who didn't feel stifled under so many layers upon layers of skirts and coats and powders.

Wandering quickly turned into looking for the garden, and she found it after some time of getting lost and even mistaken for somebody else - glass doors with ornate steel welding them together, peering out on rows and rows of tall, colorful hedges. She hesitated only a moment before stepping out and beginning to weave her way through them, keeping one gloved hand up and against the leafy walls.

The sun was already halfway towards the horizon when she finally heard another voice. So much walking and thinking had left her with questions and thoughts - for Mary and for the Stevens family, but also about that box. She had seen it only for a moment, beautiful and intricate, and she couldn't help but wonder why it had caused such a stir. it was so pretty, what was Mary afraid of? She was pulled out of those questions by the sound of whispers, of a man - no, two. She slowed down and leaned against the wall, catching her breath.

Two strangers near dark - it was a frightening thought. She almost started to turn around when she heard the first one speak again -

"We know it worked once, but that was luck-"

\- and realization struck her. She clasped her hands in front of her stomach, knowing she'd promised earlier, and followed the sound.

In a small clearing stood the two speakers, but they were no strangers. The man on the right turned to her and stared with wide eyes, and she recognized him - nervous Albert, always a little jumpy and never far away from the Goodens. So of course...

"Kirsty?" He smiled as he turned to face her, that charming smile that he had perfected years ago. Kirsty smiled back, and Albert folded his hands behind his back.

"Hello Trevor," she said, "and Albert." He bowed, just a little, and Kirsty straightened her shoulders. "Your father was looking for you."

"Was he?" Trevor only sounded somewhat surprised. "Well, we shouldn't keep him waiting. Albert?" Albert nodded, and Trevor smiled at Kirsty again. "Would you come back with us, Kirsty? It is getting rather dark, and it's been such a long time."

"That sounds alright to me," Kirsty said, managing a polite smile. Trevor smiled back and nodded to Albert before turning to Kirsty again. He started to offer his arm, and Kirsty took it after a moment's hesitance. The three walked back, and for a moment Kirsty glimpsed Albert's fidgeting hands gripping something in a black velvet sack.

* * *

 _I realize I'm cramming a lot of canon and only-kinda-canon characters in with slightly modified names, but just to be clear, "Ms. Stevens" is Gwen from the 6th movie, and "Albert" is Trevor's friend Bret. I'll probably add a glossary chapter at some point because... it's Victorian England, there's nobody going around with the name "Tawny", c'mon._

 _Hope you're enjoying this, let me know what you think!_

 _-Inky_


	4. Chapter 4

_So I know this one has been on the longest hiatus thus far, and I'm sorry to keep you all waiting, but I want you to know that the reason I got my motivation back was because I pictured a dress Kirsty probably won't wear for several chapters but I_ _ **need**_ _to include. That's where my priorities are._

 _Be kind, everybody!_

* * *

The walk back to the mansion was terse, if only for Kirsty. Trevor walked beside her with Albert as his shadow, and questions hung in the air like thick smog. She wanted to know why they were whispering, what Albert had spirited away, did they know Ms. Stevens disappeared? But she didn't ask, if only because asking questions invited them, and she didn't want him to ask...

"Kirsty," Trevor started, "I notice you're without Steven. Why isn't your betrothed with you?"

... that. Kirsty cleared her throat, putting on her polite and practiced smile she saved just for this question. She so _hated_ this question.

"Steven decided," she began, "that he was not in a position to provide for a wife, and that he still needed to seek his fortune before he could be a suitable husband. He also decided," and here she hesitated, rolling her words like weighted dice, "that he didn't want to force me to wait for him." Those were his words to her, and like the water they'd stood beside on that dock, darker and hungrier things lingered under the surface. "So as of now, our engagement has been called off."

"Oh." Trevor _did_ look uncomfortable, and that helped in a way - it was better than the apologetic looks of the mothers and married women, the ones who she knew pitied her. "That must be horribly difficult. I'm sorry I brought it up."

"It is alright," Kirsty said, "it was some four months ago. I only wish the best for him." _Even if it wasn't me._ "I would rather talk of other things, if it is all the same to you."

"Of course." Trevor smiled again, his hands folding behind his back and faced forward, as did Albert. "I'm sure you've spoken with my father, did he tell you about India?"

"India?" She asked, suddenly intrigued. She'd never seen India, or anything far beyond the West. "No, what about it?" Trevor looked at her, a twinkle in his eye.

"We just returned from a trip two weeks before. It was a matter of trade, you understand - with their spices and dyes, and a lucky chance that we had a contact, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. That's what brought us back here, there's demand for India spices and we were able to buy right off the local markets."

"Oh, that is exciting!" Kirsty had to admit he had her attention now. "What were the markets like?"

"Red," he said with a smile, "red clay and sand, vibrant colors like you wouldn't believe. I bought a work of silk that apparently serves as a scarf, though I could never wear it with anything with all of its colors. Perhaps I can bring it to the parlor later to show you and your family?"

"That would be wonderful," Kirsty said, and looked up as they came upon the house. Mr. Gooden was beyond the door, and he glanced up with a grim look on his face. it relaxed a bit when he saw both of them, and he stepped out.

"Trevor," he said, "there you are. Have you seen Gwendolyn anywhere? She seems to have disappeared without a trace, and one of the maids insists she was absconded by a box."

"Is that so? How peculiar. I'm afraid I haven't seen her." Kirsty was already eager to get to the door; just like that her discomfort had returned, not the least because Albert was shifting in a way that did not put her at ease. "Oh, Kirsty, are you going?"

"Yes," she said, turning back, "I believe there's tea I was invited to." Trevor nodded with a smile.

"Will I see you at the dance tonight?" Oh, right.

"I suppose you will," she said, and excused herself from the three mens' company. Her mind was back on the box, and Gwendolyn. She suddenly wanted to find the maid.


	5. Chapter 5

Perhaps it was for the best that she'd run into Trevor, Kirsty thought to herself, as by the time she'd returned tea was almost over. It was a lovely tea, in a charming parlor, but questions dashed about her mind that she dared not speak aloud. Trevor's mother, of course, was as doting as ever, and Kirsty was content to indulge her questions and coos; it certainly kept her from darting off at the first lull in conversation. Even so the group soon dispersed, and Kirsty was happy to disappear into the corridors.

Gwendolyn Stevens was _not_ at tea, as Mr. Gooden had suggested. She had to find that maid.

Despite its massive exterior, there was an order to the mansion that Kirsty had to appreciate. Everything was in perfect rows, and it took little more than a second for Kirsty to survey each one, doors open to such charming rooms completely devoid of frantic maids. She wasn't sure what she'd ask once she found the poor woman, or where to start, but Kirsty couldn't forget the haunted look in her eyes.

She turned a hall, and a cloud must have blocked the setting sun outside; for the hall was now quite cool in its light, and even her arms prickled with raising hairs. She almost imagined a breeze pushing her forward, but that was nonsense. Still, Kirsty thought, the doors here were shut.

Knocking on each one might have looked a bit absurd, in case anyone found her snooping about; instead Kirsty listened as she walked, hoping for a noise behind any of the doors. The silence she found instead was discomfiting. Was Mary even here? She kept on - door after door, steps echoing on tile, and this hall stretched on much longer than she'd anticipated. But finally she heard something; a soft weeping sound, a woman's voice that quickly cut into a piercing shriek.

She ran to the door; Kirsty shook and grappled with the handle, but it was locked fast as the screams continued. She could hear metal, the sound of chains, something wet and horrible she couldn't place. A deep voice said something she didn't understand, and the woman screamed again. Kirsty pushed against the door with her shoulder, to no avail, and blinding white light flooded the keyhole. She bent down and tried to peer through as it faded; she thought she saw a figure, dark and tall, disappear into the light. When it faded the room was...

Oh, but she would be haunted by this. Blood, blood and viscera adorned the walls in a horrific mockery of the wallpaper. Red stained the windows, chains that were rust-brown where they weren't black as pitch hung from the ceiling, and from them hung the scraps of cloth that Kirsty could recognize as a woman's gown, bits of skin and bone clinging to them and soaking them scarlet.

Kirsty covered her mouth; she couldn't stop the tears of horror as she pulled away, but even as she stood up she realized she hadn't seen the floor. Was the woman still there? Was there any chance she was alive? Kirsty steeled herself and opened the door.

Nothing.

She actually had to rub her eyes. Nothing. The room was immaculate; soft whites on the walls forming floral patterns, the setting sun tinting the sky pink and violet in the window, its white drapes fluttering in the breeze. She almost didn't think about it as she walked over to pull the window down, staring at nothing. She'd - she _had_ seen that, the light, the blood, the figure. Mary had mentioned the light coming from the box-

The box, Kirsty realized, which was now sitting on the floor by itself. She walked over and picked it up, looking at it properly for the first time.

It was wood; that surprised her, that something so lovely was made of simple wood. The gold decor was real, though, and must have been fine as hair to have been laid so perfectly on each surface. She turned it over once more, feeling a lump in her throat. This was what had so frightened Mary, and what was now frightening her. She grabbed a nearby kerchief and wrapped the thing; somehow not touching it directly helped. She walked out of the room, and shut the door, and Kirsty felt quite insane as she bent down to peer into the keyhole once more. Nothing. Immaculate.

As Kirsty walked, part of her mused that even the hall felt shorter than it had been coming through; but that too was nonsense. Now the sun was down, and maids were coming through and lighting lamps, and Kirsty didn't even realize her father was with them until he had her shoulders.

"There you are, Kirsty, you scared the Devil out of me!" Kirsty almost didn't respond at first, still lost in her confusion, but she managed a smile.

"I'm sorry, Papa, I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't," he said, squeezing her shoulder. "Listen, there's been a slight change of plans, we're going to be staying here for the night." That surprised her, and she squeezed the box in her hands.

"Oh, but the carriage-"

"Already back in the city," he said, "the bags we brought are up here. It grew dark so quickly that we all agreed it would be unsafe to venture back, especially in such open country. Your room's right over there, across from mine," he said, pointing just a couple doors down. "Why don't you get yourself adjusted, and we'll meet downstairs for supper?"

"What of the dance?" Kirsty was surprised at her own question, as she'd not been looking forward to the dance at all; still, her father smiled sympathetically.

"It's getting sorted out. There's still no sign of Gwendolyn, but if nothing turns up we might have to go on without her." Kirsty squeezed the box once more, thinking of what she'd seen moments earlier. What could she say? Who would she even tell? The truth would make her sound mad. She nodded and smiled at her father, and he murmured a word of parting before stepping into his room. She did the same, and felt a small pang of discomfort; for it looked much like the room she'd seen moments before, the window facing a new direction and quite shut.

She pulled the box out of its wrapping; it gleamed in dim light of a small oil lamp, and half-thinking she stuffed it under her pillow before going to the mirror. Everything seemed in place; she tucked back a couple hairs and straightened out her skirt, and with a sigh she stepped back out and tried to put it from her mind.

* * *

 _Wow, I am getting all sorts of drafts done this week! I also put up a new poll - I'm keeping details to a minimum for now, but I'd like an honest opinion on the subject in question before I say anything else. In the meantime, please let me know what you think, and be kind, everyone!_

 _\- Inky_


	6. Chapter 6

_Stiff_ was a good word to describe supper, Kirsty decided. It wasn't a polite stiffness, either; this wasn't the tension of silent competition, the unspoken need to be the most _proper_ at the table and watching how people lifted their napkins. This was a silence that everyone seemed frightened to break; for Gwendolyn was still missing, and the possibilities were either too scandalous or horrible to consider. Kirsty was actually thankful for it; while she truly worried for Gwendolyn's fate, she was also still processing that of the woman who was and wasn't behind the keyhole.

Had that been her? Had another woman fallen victim to... something? Broad shoulders, something like a crown; the details of the figure she'd seen were few and difficult to recollect. She hadn't seen Mary, but had heard whispers from serving girls that she wouldn't come out of the servants' chambers. Those were off-limits to guests, so she was in an odd spot. Could she sneak in? She was more plainly dressed than most of the women here, but blue was still a rather vibrant color to be peering around serving quarters...

"The salt, Kirsty?" She finally looked up from her soup to see her father, seated across from her with a patient expression. "I asked for the salt."

"Right, sorry," she said, passing it to him, keeping her voice down. Even she found herself having difficulty breaking the silence; she was glad Trevor was not seated next to her, because the thought of trying to make proper conversation in this din of quiet was almost unbearable. Julia, at least, had the courtesy to be as uncomfortable as she was.

It couldn't have been more than half an hour, but it felt like an eternity later that one of the hosts stood at the head of the table and cleared his throat.

"The dance tonight," he said with grim tone, "is to be postponed for half an hour. Gwendolyn is still missing, and my colleagues and I are in the process of discussing what ought to be done. Please feel free to return to your rooms, if you are staying with us; if you must take your leave, I offer my sincerest apologies. In 30 minutes' time we will inform everyone of our decision. Again, I am so sorry to have such grim circumstances spoil your evening."

The crowd dispersed, and Kirsty slipped back up to her room unnoticed by Trevor or Albert or her father. She was glad for that; the quiet was only going to help, and she didn't want to talk to Trevor, and she didn't want to disturb her father, who no doubt had wanted to spend time with his new wife. So she slipped into her room and locked the door behind her, content with a moment of isolation.

Now she could focus on her memory in silence. It had been a gruesome sight; she had glimpsed very little, but Kirsty was all but convinced that she had peered into the very depths of Hell. Could anything on Earth be so unnatural, so terrible as the torture of another human being? She sat down on her bed, soft and comforting, and sighed.

She did not know when she closed her eyes, but she opened them again to the sound of a firm rapping against the door.

"The dance is starting in ten minutes," came a dim voice from the other end, and Kirsty almost didn't understand for a second. The dance? How could they move forward with the dance? But she had to go, because if she didn't they might panic after _her,_ too. As she stood she looked down at her dress; crumpled and wrinkled from falling asleep, no good. She could no doubt swap out the skirt and blouse if she was swift about it.

She rummaged through her suitcases, and her stomach sank. No good - she'd brought little more than nightclothes and another skirt, but that was plain and rather crumpled as well. She looked down at her own outfit and tugged at it; the creases loosened but did not disappear. She closed her eyes, feeling a pang of disappointment; even if she didn't want attention, she also didn't want to be unpresentable. She opened her eyes, and for the first time noticed the dark oak wardrobe pressed up against the farthest wall.

"I'll have to apologize to Mr. Stevens," she said to herself, and stood.

The dresses were all quite dramatic, but she managed to find one in a dark, modest brown that seemed the most inconspicuous. She pulled it on with little difficulty; in fact, it fit her perfectly with little adjustment, the collar falling effortlessly below her shoulders, lined with plumes of lace that were soft on her skin. A glimpse in the mirror and an adjustment of her hair assured her she looked alright; pretty but inconspicuous, just what she needed.

The staircase felt longer as she made her way down, but that might have been the weight of the skirt. She could already hear the chatter of the guests, and instruments; at least she assumed they were instruments that were making that metallic sound. She slipped into the ballroom and looked around, hoping to find her father and nod at him so he'd know she was there. The crowds were all a blur of laughter and swirling colors; indeed, it seemed the world had all but forgotten the woes of less than an hour before.

"Excuse me." A gentleman's hand, clad in white gloves and a black coat, extended towards her. "Do you have a partner for this dance, Ms. Cotton?" She shook her head, and almost thoughtlessly took the hand offered; and now she was swept onto the floor with the rest, all moving in synchrony with the music. And what _was_ that metallic sound she was hearing?

He was a good dancer, or at least a decent one; no stepping on toes, good timing. Kirsty couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze, knowing she looked deep in thought, but he asked polite questions and she answered them with polite replies, trying to at least appear mentally present. He had a nice voice, at least; not too loud and a nice English accent, even if she couldn't tell which sort.

The music changed, and as they turned around each other Kirsty glimpsed an orange moon in the sky. So late already? Was there no search party out, had everyone forgotten? Kirsty stared at the swollen moon, caught up in her thoughts, when the gentleman cleared his throat.

"You seem concerned," he said, "are you not enjoying the dance?"

"I am," she answered, "but I can't help but worry. What about Ms. Stevens?"

"Whatever do you mean? She's right over there." Her head snapped in the direction the man pointed, and there she was; Gwendolyn Stevens, dancing the night away, her hair pinned up and a long line of scarlet slicing down her back. And suddenly she could see the other guests clearly, and they were _all_ mutilated and bleeding, scarlet staining their clothes. She looked to her partner; but now she saw his face was too pale and his uniform torn, and he smiled at her with something almost melancholy. She pulled back and ran, away from the ballroom and the blood and the metal sound that now shrieked in her ears, and as she looked back she thought she saw Trevor staring at her with a grim expression. Up the stairs, back to her room, but as she got halfway up she tripped and fell forward and her head collided directly with her pillow.

* * *

"Kirsty? Is everything alright?" A knock on the door. The door. Kirsty stared at the ceiling, turned her head. Pillow. Bed. _Bed?_

She sat up, blinking slowly, her pulse racing and breathing shaky as she looked around. She was in her room. Look down - blue skirt. She'd never changed clothes. She'd never even gotten out of bed.

"Kirsty?!" That was Julia. She stood and walked to the door, or drifted like a ghost, and opened it. "Kirsty, you frightened me, are you alright?" Kirsty nodded, still not certain enough to speak, but Julia grasped her hands and shook her head.

"Thank goodness, you didn't come down to the meeting, your father was worried."

"Meeting?" She was awake, now she was sure of that. "There was a meeting?"

"Just ten minutes ago. Listen, your father's gone with the other gentlemen and formed a search party. Another woman, Tanya Williams, has gone missing." _The red room._ Kirsty nodded again, blinking.

"I'm sorry, I must have fallen asleep... when are they coming back?"

"I don't know. I just wanted to make sure you were safe." Julia sighed. "You go back to sleep, then, it's been a long day. I'll be reading in my room if you need me." Julia left then, and Kirsty closed the door, still only half-awake. She turned, staring at her bed, struggling to understand what had happened; and then she remembered her pillow. She reached under it, and pulled the box out; it was warm in her hand, and gleamed like the orange moon she'd seen. She pressed it to her ear, and for a moment heard a sharp metallic grinding, like knives against knives.


	7. Chapter 7

She could not bring herself to close her eyes. It had been an hour since she'd woken, and Kirsty was restless, frightened, and confused. She kept turning the box over in her hands, careful not to tamper with it, trying to make sense of her dream and what she had seen that afternoon.

Two young women missing in the same day, and both seemed related to this box. This curious little treasure with no clear origin, that nobody had claimed and had seemingly lost track of between disappearances, for it to have wound up in Tanya's hands. She was almost certain it was Tanya, the way she was certain there was a connection between disappearances. It left her with questions, though, like who took the box away when poor Mary was in tears, and how did it end up _back_ among good company? How had it managed to find its way to Tanya, and then to Kirsty herself? What was the good of making young women disappear into thin air, and where were they now?

The vision of the dance crept back into the corners of her mind, and Kirsty shuddered. How had she not seen the grim scene for what it was immediately? Gwendolyn dancing amongst inhuman revelers, seemingly blissful despite the horror of her surroundings. Kirsty tried to remember her face; was it a grimace or a true smile? Was she a prisoner, or was there more at play?

The box gleamed in the shreds of moonlight that reached her bedside. It seemed almost like a dance, flecks of gold twinkling so beautifully; but she had seen such a horrific scene called by it, or to it, and Kirsty could not think of it as simply pretty. It frightened her, this toy, the unanswered questions it conjured. Opening it might answer them; but then, opening it might mean she couldn't close it again.

Kirsty rolled onto her side and stared ahead. The wardrobe stood where it had in her dream; its shadow kept to itself, but she imagined it looming for a second, creeping towards her. Some small wonder slipped into her mind, that the dress might not be in there, that it might have been just a dream after all. Of course she could have just dreamt it; there was nothing from her dream that couldn't have been plucked from the waking world. The dance, the wardrobe, even the dress hadn't been so unusual; such nightmarish sights could have simply been that, the stuff of nightmares.

And Tanya?

Well, she couldn't explain Tanya. But Kirsty sat herself up and hung off the edge of the bed, lingering with the box gripped in her left hand. The carpet was rough under her feet, but she crossed the room, slow, cautious. _Cautious of what, you mad girl?_ she wondered to herself, but the creaking of the floorboards and the sheer question of the dress crept up her spine like spidery fingertips. The space between her hand and the doorknob felt too far, too cold, but she reached up and opened it.

Dresses - normal, everyday gowns. Kirsty exhaled, because these were _not_ the ornate things she'd seen in her sleep; they had been the stuff of dreams. She closed her eyes and let out a soft laugh.

Something scratched at the window.

Kirsty gasped; she ducked beside the wardrobe and sank to her knees. It scratched again; fingernails, a human voice, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. The box ticked in her hand. The scratching subsided; a lull in the sound that threatened to swallow Kirsty whole, and she heard the voice again.

"Can't get it open!" Footsteps - somebody climbing down a ladder, but how had she not heard them coming _up?_ Had she been so preoccupied with the wardrobe? Further away, further down the ladder. The voice was distant, but she was listening now. "I didn't see it!"

"Let me look!" No no no. Kirsty all but threw herself across the room, diving under the covers and her pillow and squeezing her eyes shut, holding the box close to her chest. Footsteps again, barely audible over her pulse in her ear. Kirsty held her breath, and heard the window swing open. She held back a sob.

There was a grunt, and a footstep down, then another. She waited until she stopped hearing them - until she heard two figures walking away - to let out a shaky breath of relief. She peeled back the blanket and was greeted with the sight of the moon pouring through the window. She shoved the box back under her pillow and took in another breath, letting it out slowly, then doing it again. She did not want to go to the window; she did not want to see who'd nearly come into her room, lest they come _back._ She just wanted to slow down the pounding of her heart, to steady her breathing.

Kirsty tried to close her eyes. She hadn't actually let go of the box; her hand was shaking and she could feel it go _tick tick tick_ under her fingertips. The silence in the air was not comforting; not even late-night birdsong sounded, and the world felt too empty, too alone. Were they still out there?

The lull was almost suffocating, or maybe she was just holding her breath. Either way Kirsty waited, listening to the ticking of the box, hoping for something to pierce the silence. She felt like a bowstring being pulled too tight, waiting to go lax or to snap. It was an absurd thought. Kirsty sat up again and started to stand, trying to get a better look at the window. Were they truly gone?

 _Whump!_ The ladder hit the wall and Kirsty flew out of bed, out of her room, sprinting with the box in her hand down the hall and the spiraling staircase out into the open night.


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn't until she'd reached the garden gate that Kirsty stopped running, and even then she'd swung it open and slammed it behind her. The wrought iron was cold on her hands, as was the night air. She shuddered, breath ragged, and she slowly let herself down from her panic.

Somebody had been at her window. She'd never been in a search party, but Kirsty was fairly certain that wasn't how one was conducted; more importantly, whoever it was had been looking for something, and had been willing to come into the room to get it.

She'd dropped the box to close the gate. She looked at it - its gilded surface gleaming in the moonlight - and knelt down. She lifted it gingerly, and her hands felt delicate around it, like she was handling something that could shatter her if she wasn't careful. Her fingers closed around it and she felt a twinge in her fingertips, almost an itch to move. Kirsty looked back at the gate. Nothing, nobody. She let out a shaky breath. It formed a ghostly shape in the night air before evaporating, and she stood, still shaking.

She didn't want to go back to her room. She could always have just slipped back into the manor, but that didn't feel wholly safe either; if whoever it was had gotten into her room, then he was in the entire building. And if he wasn't, that meant she'd be the madwoman who'd run out in the dead of night over nothing. A pang of guilt took hold as she thought of everyone else, but then there were plenty of people still on guard. Trying to warn them would just call attention to herself, and if she was wrong, again, she'd look insane. No, Kirsty thought, she did not feel safe in those walls tonight.

Instead she turned to the garden; the winding hedges cast cool shadows over the ground, a comforting labyrinth to get lost in, to not be found in. The evening wind whispered in her ear and caressed her shoulder; the back of her gown stirred like a gentle hand. With one last glance at the gate, she stepped forward.

* * *

 _It would be such a lovely stroll_ , she thought to herself, _if only I had shoes_. The stone path was cool and rough, though it kept her awake with each new step. She had wound herself further into the garden, and now the moon hung directly overhead, swollen heavy and orange. The night breeze was cool, the crickets hummed, the flowers closed in on themselves as if to rest; Kirsty was finally allowing herself to relax, even if she was worried about getting back to the manor. How would she explain herself?

Finally she came upon a stone bench; it was as cool as the stone beneath her feet, but she sat anyway, looking down at herself. How silly she felt, wandering in the dark, gripping some toy like an ancient treasure or some terrible weapon. She didn't even know what it was supposed to _be._

What was it supposed to be? Kirsty turned it over in her hands; the gold gleamed with a red sheen under the moonlight, intricate patterns and symbols she'd never seen. It didn't look dangerous at all; indeed, as her fingers traced over it, some small delight bubbled in her breast. It looked like a treasure chest; even if it wasn't, it felt like a treasure all its own. How could something so pretty have been part of such a horrible vision?

Kirsty's thumb slipped, and part of it slid out of place.

Panic and curiosity seized her at once; Gwendolyn and Tanya's faces in the dream flashed before her, and in her ears rang the laughter and the music that had played. Slowly she pushed it back into place and sat it down next to her, staring at it.

 _Open it,_ she thought, or maybe the wind whispered it in her ear. _Open it and find them._ Around her the night was still; as she picked up the box again Kirsty listened for footsteps, for anything like the men at her bedroom window. Nothing; she was alone. Cautiously, carefully, she pushed that piece again. It slid with patient obedience; there was another section that pulled forward, and as she pushed it back into place the full section slid back down. She turned the box, feeling for any other moving parts, and found two corners that twisted; it was only when she did that she heard the sound of metal, something heavy scraping against the floor.

"Hello?" She called, and regretted it immediately; what if it was the men at her window? Kirsty stood, swallowing, listening. The crickets were silent; the light from the manor felt far away. Her hands fiddled with the box and nervously snapped the corners back into place. Something clicked inside the box, but she barely noticed as she moved forward.

The night was colder now; the silence bit into her the way the icy stone did, and she strained to hear anything at all for the way it deafened her. Kirsty could feel only the pounding of her own chest; in her hands the box pulsed with her own heartbeat, click-click-clicking patiently. It was waiting for her to finish, she knew, but how a box could _wait_ was beyond her.

 _Maybe I've gone insane,_ she thought, passing a hedge of full and dark roses, _maybe looking in that keyhole drove me to madness. How would I know what madness is, if I've never had it?_ It would certainly explain why she was out here in the middle of the night, following a path that twisted far longer than she remembered it. Was she somehow going in reverse?

Kirsty walked, and listened, and as she did she finally heard something; a soft lilting sound, like stringed instruments over the hedges. She followed it, and soon it was accompanied by gentle laughter; and with the laughter came chatter, and with the chatter came delighted voices and sounds.

The manor was alight with activity; as she approached the closed gate Kirsty took in the sight of the crowds light by candlelight and dancing within. It was music she'd heard before; and as she reached the gate, she found it locked shut.

"Hello!" She called, seeing two women chattering nearby. "I can't get through the gate!"

"Open it!" One of the women called, waving to Kirsty. "Come join us!"

"Yes, it's not hard!" Her partner called, "Just a little more work! Do come over here!" Despite her confusion, Kirsty wanted to join them; the music was so inviting, the crowd looked so happy! It seemed safer than where she'd been.

"I'll try!" Kirsty reached for the lock, but it held fast; gold etchings gleamed as she shook it, and in her struggle she squeezed the box, that loose piece sliding forward again before falling to the ground.

Everything vanished; the crowds, the girls, the lights. The world was silent once more; the moon now hung behind the mansion, blood-red and sinking into the sky. And Kirsty stood at the unlocked gate, staring in confusion, before pushing it open. They were all gone; and as she walked back to the mansion Kirsty couldn't shake the feeling she'd made a mistake.

Kirsty slipped back into her room with little trouble; everyone else was still asleep, and even the search party seemed to have long ended. As she laid down Kirsty stared out the open window, admiring the stars; and though she didn't dream the rest of the night, regret covered her as heavily as her blankets.


End file.
